Gustave Aimard
The Rebel Chief: A Tale of Guerilla Life

The sun rose, and by the first beams of dawn the domes and lofty steeples, of Puebla appeared in the distance, with their black and still indistinct outlines standing out against the dark blue sky.

The Count ordered the party to halt.

"Señor," he said to Cuellar, "you have loyally fulfilled the conditions stipulated between us; receive my thanks, and those of my unfortunate companions here; we are not more than two leagues from Puebla, it is daylight, and it is, therefore, unnecessary for you to accompany us further."

"In truth, señor, I believe that you can now do without me, and as you permit it, I will leave you, repeating my regret for what has occurred, but unfortunately I am not the master, and – "

"No more of this, pray," the Count interrupted, "what is done is irreparable, for the present at least: so it is useless to dwell on the subject any longer."

Cuellar bowed. "One word, Señor Conde," he said, in a low voice.

The young man went up to him.

"Let me," the guerillero continued, "give you a piece of advice ere we part."

"Pray go on, señor."

"You are still far from Puebla, where you will not arrive for two hours: be on your guard, and carefully watch the country around you."

"What do you mean, señor?"

"It is impossible to know what may happen: I repeat to you, watch."

"Farewell, señor," the young man replied mechanically as he returned his salute.

After thus courteously taking leave of the party, the guerillero placed himself at the head of his men and galloped off, though not without once more recommending the young man to be prudent by a significant gesture. The Count watched him depart with a pensive air.

"What is the matter, friend?" Dominique asked him.

Ludovic told him what Cuellar had said to him on taking leave.

The vaquero frowned. "There is something in the background," he said; "in any case the advice is good and we should do wrong to neglect it."

CHAPTER XVIII
THE AMBUSH

For some minutes after the departure of the guerillero, the melancholy caravan silently continued its journey. The last words uttered by Cuellar had gone home, however: the Count and the vaquero felt involuntarily restless, and without daring to impart their gloomy presentiments to each other, they advanced with excessive prudence, sniffing the air, so to speak, and starting at the least suspicious movement in the bushes. It was a little past five a.m.: it was that moment when nature appears to be sunk in contemplation, and when day and night, struggling together with almost equal force, melt into each other and produce that opaline gleam, whose misty tints impart to objects a vague and undetermined appearance, which renders them somewhat fantastic. A greyish vapour rose from the ground and produced a transparent fog, which the sunbeams, gradually growing in intensity, rent at spots, lighting up one part of the landscape and leaving the other in shadow: in a word, it was no longer night and not yet day. In the distance the numerous domes of the buildings of Puebla appeared, standing out in confused masses against the dark blue sky: the trees, washed by the abundant night dew, had grown green: on each leaf trembled a crystalline drop of water and their branches agitated by the morning breeze, smote each other softly with mysterious murmurings: already the small birds concealed beneath the foliage were uttering twitterings, and the wild oxen raised their heads above the tall grass with hoarse lowings. The fugitives were following a winding track beset on either side by factitious embankments, thrown up for the cultivation of the agave, which limited the horizon to an extremely narrow circle, and prevented that careful survey of the environs, which was perhaps necessary for the general safety of the caravan. The Count approached Dominique, and leaning over the saddle, said in a low cautious voice:

"My friend, I know not why, but I feel an extreme anxiety: the farewell of that bandit painfully affected me: it seems to forebode a speedy, terrible and inevitable misfortune for us, and yet we are only a short distance from the town, and the tranquillity that prevails around us ought to reassure me."

"It is this tranquillity," the young man replied in the same key, "which causes me like yourself indescribable agony: I too have a presentiment of a misfortune; we are here in a wasp's nest, and no place would be better for an ambush."

"What is to be done?" the Count muttered.

"I do not know exactly, for it is a difficult case: still I feel convinced that we ought to redouble our prudence. Place Don Andrés and his daughter in front, warn the peons to march with finger on trigger, and be ready for the slightest alarm: in the meanwhile, I will go out scouting and if the enemy is pursuing us, I will contrive to throw him off the track: but we must not lose a single instant."

While speaking thus, the vaquero dismounted, threw his bridle to a peon, placed his gun on his left arm and ascended the right hand embankment, where he almost immediately disappeared among the bushes that bordered the path.

When left alone, the Count immediately set about following his friend's advice: he consequently formed a rearguard of the most resolute and best armed peons, and gave them orders attentively to watch the approaches; but he concealed from them, through fear of terrifying them, the gravity of the events he foresaw. The majordomo, as if he divined the Count's anxiety and shared his suspicions of an approaching attack, had placed Don Andrés and his daughter in the centre of a small group of devoted servants, of whom he took the command, and hurrying on the horses, he left an interval of about one hundred yards between himself and the main body. Doña Dolores, overwhelmed by the terrible emotions of the night, had paid very slight attention to the arrangements made by her friends, and mechanically followed the new impulse given her, in all probability unconscious of the new dangers that menaced her, and only thinking of one thing, watching over her father, whose state of prostration was becoming more and more alarming. In fact, since his departure from the hacienda, in spite of his daughter's entreaties, Don Andrés had not uttered a syllable, with fixed, lacklustre eyes, with his head bowed on his chest and his body agitated by a continuous nervous trembling, he left his horse to guide itself, without appearing to know whither he was going, so utterly had sorrow broken all his energy and will.

Leo Carral, who was devoted to his master and young mistress and who understood how incapable the old gentleman would be of offering the slightest resistance in the probable event of an attack, had especially recommended the servants he selected to serve as an escort to Don Andrés, not to lose sight of him; and in the event of a combat, to make every possible effort to draw him out of the medley, and protect him as far as possible from danger: then at a signal the Count gave him, he turned back and rejoined him.

"I see," the Count said, "that like myself you have a foreboding of danger."

The majordomo shook his head. "Don Melchior will not give up the game," he replied, "until he has either won or utterly lost it."

"Do you then suspect him to be capable of a horrible trap?"

"This man is capable of anything."

"Why, in that case he is a monster."

"No," the majordomo replied gently, "he is a mixed blood, an envious and proud man, who knows that fortune alone can obtain him the apparent consideration which he covets: all means will be right to obtain this consideration."

"Even parricide?"

"Exactly."

"What you tell me is horrible."

"What would you have, señor? It is so."

"Thank Heaven, we are approaching Puebla, and once inside the town we shall have nothing more to fear."

"Yes, but we are not there yet: you know the proverb as well as I do, Excellency."

"What proverb?"

"That twixt the cup and the lip there's many a slip."

"I hope that this time you will be mistaken."

"I wish it, too: but you called me, Excellency?"

"Yes; I had a hint to give you."

"I am anxious to hear it."

"In the case of our being attacked, I insist that you leave us to our own resources, and escape at full speed towards Puebla, taking with you Don Andrés and his daughter, while we are fighting. Perhaps you will have time to place them in safety behind the walls of the town."

"I will obey you, Excellency. No one shall reach my master without passing over my corpse. Have you nothing more to say to me?"

"No. Return to your post; and may Heaven be gracious to us!"

The majordomo bowed, and galloped up to the small troop, in the centre of whom were Don Andrés and his daughter. Almost at the same moment Dominique reappeared on the side of the track: he fetched his horse, and then stationed himself on the Count's right.

"Well," the latter asked him, "have you discovered anything?"

"Yes, and no," he replied, in a low voice.

His face was gloomy, his eyebrows contracted till they joined. The Count examined him attentively for a moment, and felt his alarm redoubled.

"Explain yourself," he at length said to him.

"What is the use? You will not understand me."

"Perhaps not; but speak all the same."

"This is the fact. The plain is completely deserted on our right, left, and rear; I am certain of that. If the danger really exists, it is not to be feared in those quarters. If a trap is laid for us – if ambushed enemies are prepared to rush upon us, this trap is ahead; these enemies are concealed between the town and us."

"What makes you suppose this?"

"Signs which are certain to me, and which my long residence among the Indians made me recognise at the first glance. In the regions where we now are, men generally neglect all the precautions employed on the prairies, the forgetfulness of one of which would entail the immediate death of the imprudent hunter or warrior who had thus revealed his presence to his enemy. Here the trail is easy to recognise, and easier to follow, for it is perfectly visible even to the most inexperienced eye. Listen carefully to this: – since we left the hacienda, we have been – I will not say followed, for the term is not correct under the circumstances – but accompanied on our right by a large party of horsemen, who galloped in the same direction as ourselves at the distance of a gunshot at the most. These men, whoever they may be, wheeled about half a league from here, drawing slightly nearer to our left, as if they wished to approach us; but then doubled their pace, passed us, and entered, ahead of us, the track on which we now are, so that we are following them at this moment."

"And you conclude from this?"

"That the situation is dangerous, even critical; and that whatever precautions we may take, I am greatly afraid that we have to deal with too strong a party. Remark how the path gradually contracts – how the sides become scarped. We are now in a canyon, and in a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes at the most, we shall reach the spot where the canyon opens out into the plain. It is there, be assured, that our watchers are waiting for us."

"My good fellow, this is only too clear. Unluckily, we have no way of escaping the fate that menaces us, and we must push on all the same."

"I know it, and it is that which vexes me," the vaquero said with a suppressed sigh, as he cast a side glance at Doña Dolores. "If the question only concerned us, it would be soon settled, for we are men, and could fall bravely; but will our death save that old man and that poor innocent girl?"

"At least, we will attempt impossibilities to keep them from falling into the hands of their persecutors."

"We are now approaching the suspicious point, so let us push on, to be ready for any event."

They forced their horses into a gallop. A few minutes passed, and they then reached a spot where the path, before entering the plain, made a rather sharp elbow.

"Look out," the Count said, in a low voice.

All placed their finger on the trigger. The elbow was passed, but suddenly the whole cavalcade halted with a start of surprise and terror. The entrance of the canyon was barred by a strong barricade, composed of branches, trees, and stones, thrown across the path. Behind this barricade some twenty men were standing motionless and threatening. The weapons of other men crowning the heights on the right and left could be seen glistening in the beams of the rising sun. A horseman was standing in the centre of the path, a little in front of the barricade. It was Don Melchior.

"Ah! Ah!" he said, with an ironical grin; "Each his turn, caballeros. I believe that I am at this moment master of the situation, and in a position to offer conditions."

The Count, without being in the slightest degree disconcerted, drew a few paces nearer.

"Take care of what you are going to do, señor," he replied; "a treaty was loyally concluded between your chief and us. Any infraction of that treaty would be an act of treachery, and the dishonour would fall on your chief."

"Good!" Don Melchior retorted; "We are partizans, and carry on war in our fashion, without troubling ourselves about what people may think. Instead of entering into an idle discussion, which would not be favourable to you, I fancy it would be more sensible to inform you on what conditions I will consent to let you pass."

"Conditions! We will not accept a single one, caballero; and if you do not consent to let us pass, we may compel you to do so, however serious the consequences of a struggle may be for both of us."

"Try it!" he replied, with an ironical smile.

"We are going to do so."

Don Melchior shrugged his shoulders, and turning to his partizans, shouted, —

"Fire!"

A frightful detonation was heard, and a shower of bullets hustled round the little party.

"Forward! Forward!" the Count cried.

The peons rushed with yells of anger against the barricade. The struggle began – a terrible, fearful struggle; for the peons knew that no quarter would be granted them by their ferocious adversaries, and they fought accordingly, performing prodigies of valour – not to conquer, for they did not believe that possible – but not to fall unavenged. Don Andrés had torn himself from the arms of his daughter, who tried in vain to retain him; and, only armed with a machete, boldly threw himself into the thickest of the fight. The attack of the peons was so impetuous, that the barricade was crossed at the first bound, and the two parties fought hand to hand, being too near each other to employ either guns or pistols.

The partisans stationed on the heights were necessarily reduced to inaction through fear of wounding their friends, as the two bands were so mixed up. Don Melchior was far from expecting such a vigorous resistance on the part of the peons: owing to the advantageous position he had chosen, he had believed the victory easy and reckoned on immediate submission. The event singularly deranged his calculations, and he was beginning to see the consequences of his action. Cuellar, who would doubtless have forgiven an act of treachery accomplished without striking a blow, would not pardon him for letting his bravest soldiers be thus madly killed. These thoughts redoubled Don Melchior's rage. The small troop, horribly decimated, now only counted a few men capable of fighting, the rest were either killed or wounded.

Don Andrés' horse had been killed and the old gentleman, though his blood poured from two wounds, did not the less continue to fight. All at once he uttered a fearful cry of despair: Don Melchior had dashed with a tiger's bound into the centre of the group where Doña Dolores had sought shelter. Hurling down all the peons who came in his way, Don Melchior seized the girl, in spite of her resistance, threw her across his horse's neck, and clearing all obstacles, fled, without troubling himself further about the combat sustained by his comrades. The latter, on seeing themselves thus abandoned, gave up a fight which no longer possessed any object for them, and doubtless, in pursuance of an order previously given them, dispersed in all directions, leaving the peons at liberty to continue their journey to Puebla, if such were their desire. The abduction of Doña Dolores had been so rapidly performed by Don Melchior that no one noticed it at the first moment, and the cry of despair uttered by Don Andrés alone gave the alarm. Without calculating the dangers to which they exposed themselves, the Count and the majordomo dashed in pursuit of Don Melchior. But the young man who was mounted on a valuable horse, had a considerable advance on their tired steeds, which was augmented every instant. Dominique cast a glance at Don Andrés, who had thrown himself on the ground, and raised him gently saying,

"Have good, hopes, señor, I will save your daughter."

The old gentleman clasped his hands, and after looking at him with an expression of unspeakable gratitude fainted away. The vaquero remounted his horse, and driving his spurs into his flanks, he left Don Andrés in the hands of his servants, and in his turn started in pursuit of the abductor. Shortly after the pursuit began, the vaquero acquired the certainty that Don Melchior who was better mounted than himself and his comrades, would speedily be out of reach. The young man, who had hitherto galloped in a straight line across country, suddenly made a sharp whirl, as if an unforeseen obstacle had suddenly risen before him; and keeping to the right he seemed for some minutes desirous of reapproaching his pursuers. The latter then tried to bar his passage. Dominique stopped his horse and dismounted, and cocked his gun.

According to the direction Don Melchior was following at this moment, he must pass within a hundred yards of him. The vaquero made the sign of the cross, shouldered his gun and pulled the trigger. Don Melchior's horse, struck in the head, rolled on the ground, dragging down the rider in its fall. At the same moment, some thirty partizans appeared in the distance, galloping at full speed toward the scene of the ambuscade. Cuellar galloped at their head. Great as was the haste displayed by the Count and the majordomo to reach the spot where Don Melchior was lying, Cuellar arrived, before them. Don Melchior rose, much hurt by his fall, and leant down to his sister to help her to rise: Doña Dolores had fainted.

"By heavens, señor," Cuellar said in a rough voice, "you are a rude comrade, you practise treachery and ambushes with a rare talent, but may the fiend twist my neck sooner than he ought to do, if we ride any longer in company."

"You select your time badly for jesting, señor," Don Melchior replied; "this young lady, who is my sister, has fainted."

"Whose fault is it," the partisans exclaimed brutally, "except your own? With the mere object of carrying her off for I know what purpose, you have had twenty of the most resolute men in my cuadrilla killed. But things shall not go on so. I will put them in order, I vow."

"What do you mean?" Don Melchior asked haughtily.

"I mean that you will henceforth do me the great pleasure of going wherever you like, so long as it is not with us, and that I intend from this moment to have nothing more in common with you. This is clear, is it not?"

"Perfectly clear, señor, and hence I will not abuse your patience any longer: supply me with the requisite horses for my sister and myself, and I will leave you immediately."

"Hang me if I supply you with anything: as for this young lady, here are several gentlemen coming who, I am afraid, will hardly let you take her away with you."

Don Melchior turned pale with rage, but he comprehended that any resistance on his part was impossible: he folded his arms on his chest, drew himself up haughtily and waited. The Count, the majordomo, and Dominique were really hurrying up. Cuellar walked some paces toward them – and the young man felt rather anxious, for they did not know the partisan's intentions, and apprehended that he might declare against them.

But Cuellar hastened to disabuse them: "You arrive opportunely, señores," he said with a kindly accent: "I hope that you have not done me the insult of supposing that I was in any way connected with the trap to which you so nearly fell victims."

"We did not believe it for a moment, señor," the Count politely replied.

"I thank you for the good opinion you entertain of me, señores: of course you have come to request that this young lady may be delivered to you."

"That is certainly our intention, señor."

"And if I refuse to let you remove her," Don Melchior said fiercely.

"I shall blow out your brains, señor," the partisan coolly interrupted. "Believe me, you had better not try to contend with me, but rather profit by my present good temper to be off: for I might soon repent of this last reproof of my kindness I give you, and abandon you to your enemies."

"Be it so," Don Melchior remarked bitterly; "I will retire since I am compelled to do so;" and looking at the Count disdainfully, he added, "We shall meet again, señor, and then I hope, if the strength is not entirely on my side, that at least the chances will be equal."

"You have already been mistaken on that point, señor; I have too much confidence in God to believe that it will not always be so."

"We shall see," he replied in a hollow voice, falling back a few paces as if to withdraw.

"And your father – do you not wish to know what the result of your ambush has been with him?" Dominique then asked him in a tone of dull menace.

"I have no father," Don Melchior replied savagely.

"No," the Count exclaimed in disgust, "for you have killed him."

The young man shuddered, a livid pallor covered, his face, a bitter smile contracted his thin lips, and casting a venomous glance at those who surrounded him, he cried in a choking voice – "Make way; I accept this new insult; make way for the parricide."

Everybody recoiled with horror watching this monster, who departed across the plain, apparently calm and peaceful. Cuellar himself watched him retire with a shake of the head.

"That man is a demon," he muttered, and crossed himself.

This gesture was piously imitated by the soldiers. Doña Dolores was gently raised in Dominique's arms, placed on the Count's horse, and the young men, escorted by Cuellar, returned to Don Andrés. The peons had bound up their master's wounds to the best of their ability. By the Count's orders, they then made a litter of branches, which they covered with their zarapés, and the old gentleman was laid on it by his daughter's side. Don Andrés was still unconscious. Cuellar then took leave of the Count.

"I regret more than I can express this unfortunate event," he said with some degree of sadness. "Although this man is a Spaniard, and consequently an enemy of Mexico, still the lamentable state to which I see him reduced fills me with compassion."

The young men thanked the rough partisan for this proof of sympathy, and after collecting their wounded, they finally took leave of him, and sadly recommenced their journey to Puebla, where they arrived two hours later, accompanied by several relations of Don Andrés, who, warned by a peon sent on ahead, had come out to meet them.